Throw me a Line
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: In the summer before CoS, Ron finds Harry's back covered with welts. See Abused!Harry. See Ron try to keep Harry's secret. See Hermione try and stop him getting hurt again. See Fred and George get the wrong idea. Hurtcomfort, Trio friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: Set in the interlude between PS and CoS. Tweaked a little from canon, but not so you'd notice.

* * *

It had only been two days since Harry had arrived at the Burrow, but Ron was already of the opinion that it was the best thing that could have happened to improve his summer.

The days were just more fun with his best mate around. It was fun waking up with Harry in his room, blinking owlishly in the sunlight, then looking around with a broad grin of contentment that made something stir in Ron's heart. Breakfast was more fun with his friend there, even though Harry never sat at the table for more than a few minutes, seemed acutely uncomfortable, and hardly touched his Mum's enormous breakfasts; Ron supposed his friend was shy, and he and his mother did their best to persuade him to eat, but to no avail. Ron supposed Harry wasn't used to rich food, and _that_ gave him a new appreciation of something he usually took for granted.

The days were sunny and bright, and with Harry there, it was even fun doing chores, as his Muggle-raised friend was unfamiliar with the Wizarding way of doing things and was genuinely interested in mundane tasks such as de-gnoming, pixie bribes and ghoul control. Harry seemed to tire easily, which always gave Ron an excuse to skive off work. Since Harry got there, they had always had lunch in the shade of the big beech tree behind the house, Ron lounging lazily with his back against the tree, Harry lying on his stomach in the grass. Ron would end up shedding his clothes and diving into the little pond behind the house as he usually did on hot days, but had so far been unsuccessful in his attempts to convince a steadfastly resistant Harry to take a dip.

It amused Ron that Harry was so reticent, almost like a girl; he refused to undress in front of anyone, not even Ron, always changing his clothes in the bathroom. Half the time Ron supposed it might be out of a fear of his Mum or Ginny walking in; he knew his friend wasn't used to living in a house with so many people in it. The other half he supposed that Harry might be shy about how thin he was. Ron was lean, but Harry was positively scrawny; his cheeks were hollow and his wrists far too bony. Ron knew, from growing up with the twins, how it was to feel inadequate in the midst of boys who were more fit than you, and had bigger muscles than your own, so he humoured Harry. The way his friend ate, it was hardly surprising that he was so thin. At mealtimes, his Mum's frustration with Harry's birdlike appetite was obvious; she was forever trying to fatten him up and clucking over how thin he was, and when Harry would rise five minutes into the meal with some excuse or other, she dropped broad hints about the pantry being always open if anyone got peckish in between meals.

Their afternoon routine for the past couple of days had tended to be pleasantly occupied with Chaser-and-Keeper-only Quidditch; the twins, grounded for blowing up the tool-shed, would only be able to play next week (Harry had been most impressed at the way his Mum had taken the Levitation Charms right off the broomsticks, and Ron had had to explain that it was a parental option that only worked by special activation through blood and was normally used only when there were very young children in the house). Ron had trounced Harry both times because, Harry explained sheepishly, he was out of practice and seemed to have forgotten how to even sit on a broom. The matches were followed by half-hearted discussions of how they really ought to be doing some of their summer homework, and mutual decisions to put it off till tomorrow, which, as everyone knows, never comes. Evenings after the usual sumptuous dinner had been spent sprawled on the rug chatting casually about nothing, playing Exploding Snap, chess and other board games, plus, yesterday, a spot of letter-writing ("No, Hermione, we haven't started our Transfiguration essays yet. Ron says to tell you we thought we'd wait till next week when you get here and then we can copy yours"). Finally, pleasantly drowsy, the boys would go up to Ron's room, where Harry was set up on the spare bed. There was a delicious pleasure in saying "'Night, Harry" to his friend in his own home, and more than once he'd caught himself thinking that this was what it would have been like to have a younger brother, then feeling vaguely guilty towards Ginny.

All in all, it felt as though Harry had been there forever, and it was funny to think he'd only arrived the day before yesterday.

Ron stirred lazily in bed. As far as he was concerned, _he_ could certainly stay like this forever. Soon, he'd have to be getting up, but he could have a bit of a lie-in until the sun woke Harry. Right now, the bright shaft of light slanted into his eyes through that one annoying gap in the curtains that Ron could never seem to get to close. He turned his back on the sunbeam, turning to where Harry lay in the spare bed. Still in a comfortable haze of sleep, Ron fondly watched Harry, asleep on his stomach, arm flung out, messy hair all over the pillow. Ron's room faced west, which meant it got a bit too warm in summer, and Harry had kicked the covers off as he slept. His pyjama top – one of Ron's, baggy and too big for him – was riding up his back, leaving his waist bare.

_He'll catch cold like that_, Ron thought. After wrestling with his conscience for a few moments, he regretfully bestirred himself to tug Harry's shirt back down. Or wake him up, he thought wickedly. Sliding his legs off the bed, he padded barefoot over to Harry…

…and stopped dead.

For a moment he just stood there in incomprehension, unable to register what he was seeing. There were marks standing out on Harry's bony, pale back – long, raised purple marks. From the small area where the pyjama pants were sliding down, Ron could see that the marks went down further beneath the clothing.

_Oh no! _Ron thought in a panic._ You-Know-Who's got to him! He only ever made his scar hurt before, but now he's doing Goodness-knows-what to him in his sleep!_ Possessed with the idea of warning Harry and seeing if he was all right, Ron shouted urgently, "Harry! Wake up!"

He grabbed Harry by the shoulder and shook him, then snatched his hand away as Harry winced. "Harry!" he said more urgently. "Get _up!_"

Ron recoiled as Harry started, then exploded violently up from the bedcovers. He shuffled backwards in bed until his back hit the wall, shrank back as though expecting a blow, and shielded his face with his arm. "I'm awake, Uncle!" he gasped out, and then a torrent of words burst from Harry in a strange, high voice, trembling but resolutely defiant. "I'll get started on the magnolias right away, I'll make up for oversleeping," he babbled, then went on very fast, "don't worry, wouldn't want to make you knock the stuffing out of me again and tire out your arm or break your precious Smeltings Stick over my stupid back again, now would I—"

Harry slowly lowered his arm, his suddenly-wide-awake eyes meeting Ron's dumbfounded stare.

For a moment the two friends just stared at each other, Harry in shock and mortification at what he had just revealed, Ron with his mouth hanging open, gears turning in his head trying to make sense of what he had heard. It couldn't mean what he thought it meant, it _couldn't_… Yet it all made sense, as he remembered with painful clarity the bars on his window, the shock he'd felt at seeing his brilliant best mate locked in like an animal… But who could possibly want to beat Harry? Nobody would dare do that, he'd kill them!

And yet… there was no other meaning to what he had heard, no possible way to misunderstand it. Harry's words rolled around like marbles in his brain: "…knock the stuffing out of me again… break your stick over my back…"

Ron's whole body seemed to blaze with fury. A refiner's fire of protectiveness blasted through him so forcefully that he almost felt lifted off the ground. But there was nothing he could do with his friend in a funk like this: Harry was still shrinking back, staring at him with wide eyes full of panic. In this state, he put him in mind of a skittish unicorn, and the last thing Ron wanted was for Harry to bolt. He fumbled for something to break the silence.

"Muggles been thumping you, have they?"

Though he wanted to scream, to break something, Ron forced his tone to be casual, almost bored, as though what he was seeing was a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence. "Let's have a look at the back then," he said in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Harry just sat with his back to the wall, and tried a thoroughly unconvincing grin. "Funny the things you dream about, isn't it?" he said, too brightly.

"Harry," Ron said, trying hard to keep his tone under control, "I saw the marks under your shirt. Um, it's all right. Happens all the time," he improvised in an attempt to put Harry at his ease.

Harry stared at him. "Really? Y-you mean your Dad – or your Mum…"

"_No,_" Ron snapped with a vehemence that surprised him. The shame on Harry's face drove him to qualify it with, "Well, um, Dad smacked our bottoms a few times when we were little, mostly when we'd done something really dangerous or stupid." He cast about for something to make Harry feel it wasn't so awful. "The twins got the worst of it. He even leathered their bums with the belt once or twice." It would kill him to say the next bit, but he did. "Um, your Muggle relations most likely just got carried away a bit, that's all. Just let us have a shufti, there's a good chap. Mum's got some salve that'll probably make you feel bett—"

"_No!_" Harry said vehemently. Ron met his eyes, surprised. "I don't want anyone to know! You can't tell anyone, Ron! Promise me!"

The wicked exultation in Ron at having something to blackmail Harry with made him wonder if he shouldn't have been sorted into Slytherin. "If you don't show me the marks, I _will_ tell Mum," he said.

Harry's gaze wavered, and he seemed to deflate. With a resigned sigh, he slowly moved off the bed, and stood next to the dresser. Making sure Harry could see him, Ron went to the door and locked it. "Pants too," he said. Harry shot him a venomous look, but nodded. He stripped off his T-shirt, facing Ron. Then he turned around, bent over, and slipped off his pants and pyjama bottoms, shivering a little as he stood there naked, and straightened up with a certain dignity.

Ron opened the curtains, letting sunlight stream into the room. Turning to see the slight figure in the sunlight, he almost cried out, but clamped down on it with a great effort so as not to embarrass Harry. No wonder he'd left the dinner table so quickly; Ron wondered how his best mate had been able to sit on that swollen, beaten bottom at all. The buttocks and thighs were ridged with raised welts, some crusted with dried blood, standing out angrily against the pale skin in the sunlight; the center of each buttock was covered with a dark brown scab. The scabs seemed to have split from the movement and were weeping fluid and a trickle of fresh blood._ What kind of beating would have taken the skin off his poor bum like that? _Ron thought, his stomach churning. In a wide circle around the center of the damage, the flesh was bruised black and blue.

Ron gulped and forced himself to look upwards, taking inventory of the damage. Harry's lower back, where the kidneys were, seemed all right, but his entire ribcage was worse than he thought it had been. His shoulders and sides were green, yellow and blue under the skin; the back itself was eerily white, scored with rough, purple double lines, punctuated by white blisters full of fluid, and cuts trailing black streaks of still more dried blood. Even his upper arms were full of funny-looking small black bruises. _Bloody hell, Harry, you must have been in terrible pain, and you trying to make us believe that nothing was wrong with you…_With an awful shudder, Ron remembered how quickly Harry had tired of his chores, how bad he had been at Quidditch… the thought of his scarred bottom being split open by sitting on the broomstick… He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.

"Come on. Lie down before you drop," Ron ordered, his voice rough. He manhandled Harry gently back into bed, and was even more alarmed when Harry just sank gratefully back into the mattress. Harry usually did not take kindly to being ordered around. "Harry," he went on, "I can't leave you like this."

"You _promised!_" Harry's eyes flashed.

"Yeah, I did, mate," Ron sighed, "but I can't…" He had an idea. "If it was me in this state, would you let me just cover it up?"

"'Course not," Harry snapped, "but that's different."

"How is it different?"

"Boys! Breakfast!" Mrs. Weasley rapped on the door, calling cheerfully. Harry almost jumped out of his skin, flipping himself over onto his back to hide the damage. Ron's head snapped round to him in alarm. He was moving so fast that he rose into the air as he flipped over, and thudded violently down onto his sore back with an impact that forced a huff of breath and a cry out of him, and made Ron wince. He saw tears of pain spring to Harry's eyes, and felt like punching somebody.

"_Harry!_ What do you think you're doing? Take it easy, will you?" Ron snapped. "We're not decent!" he sang out cheerfully to his Mum. "Be right down!"

As her footsteps died away on the stairs, Ron turned to Harry, whispering fiercely with barely contained anger, "Get back on your stomach, would you? What are you trying to prove?"

Harry looked at him helplessly, eyes burning with frustration, and Ron gazed back down at him with a sickening realization dawning: _He can't move_.

"Come here, you," Ron snapped, cursing the underage magic restrictions that stopped him using a simple _Leviosa_ as he gripped Harry's unbruised forearms, trying to turn him over without aggravating his hurts. He was shocked, but not really surprised, to see smears of fresh blood on the sheet from where Harry had landed. Placing a hand on his back, a hand on his side, was unavoidable, and Ron winced when his friend did, flinching with every whimper forced from him. Finally, Harry was settled on his stomach, panting with the effort. Ron shook out a cotton sheet, letting it billow through the air as it settled gently onto Harry's back. "Just stay here, I'll sort things out with Mum," he ordered, wondering when he'd become so bossy. "I'll lock the door," he said reassuringly. Then he bolted from the room before his Mum could come knocking and upset Harry again.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry buried his face in the pillow. He'd tried so hard to keep the secret, but now Ron knew everything. Well, not in detail, but he knew quite enough.

_This is a disaster_, he told himself mechanically. The funny thing was, he couldn't bring himself to be upset. In fact, it was quite a relief somebody knowing. He'd put up with being thumped all his life, and had never let on; Dudley's baggy old clothes were a relief in that respect. It was bad enough that people knew about his having to wear his cousin's hand-me-downs and seeing his taped glasses and going 'Harry-hunting' without having something else to tease him about. Later, he'd had a quiet think about his Hogwarts letters being addressed to "The Cupboard Under the Stairs," and had finally come to the conclusion that Dumbledore and everyone had sort of known, and taken it in stride. This was borne out by Hagrid's getting angry with the Dursleys for not telling Harry about his past, but not for knocking him about. So what with one thing and another, he'd come to the conclusion that it was just one of those things.

'Just one of those things.' That sounded cavalier enough. Good. Besides, he'd always felt that _talking_ about it was an embarrassment; it was bad enough that it happened, but it would be even worse to gab about it. Least said, soonest mended and all that.

He sighed, savouring the feeling of relief as relaxation spread through him, bone-deep. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until he'd stopped fighting – fighting to hide what had happened, fighting to hide that it hurt. The past two days had been like a dream, just being here with Ron and the Weasleys – meals laid on, always enough to eat, people smiling at you affectionately, someone to talk to all the time, not being locked in, waking up without panic, not worrying about getting hit, being able to stop doing chores if you got tired…

He supposed he should have known that Ron would find out sooner or later, living in the same house. It had been relatively easy to hide the injuries in first year – what with the privacy of the dormitories and the fact that they hadn't known each other all that well yet, it had been relatively easy to hide them until they faded. But here…

It was only yesterday, after all, that he'd had the near-miss with Ron.

* * *

They'd been de-gnoming the garden together. The task was pretty painful with all the bending and stretching it involved, but it was no worse, he told himself, than weeding the garden with a sore back, or squatting to compost the roses with a sore bum. The annoying thing was the way the sweat trickled down his back, burning into his cuts, but on the bright side, the baggy, dark workshirt of Ron's didn't show if they bled a bit. He just concentrated on each part of the task at a time, the way he usually did: bend – grip the gnome – spin round and round – throw it out – bend – grip the gnome – spin round and round – throw it out – bend –

"…all right?"

"Hmm?"

Ron's slightly concerned voice cut into his reverie. "I said you're sweating like a pig there, mate. It's pretty hot, you know. You sure you're all right?"

"Oh, yes," Harry lied, wiping the sweat off his brow. There was work to be done, wasn't there? He'd get a good rest when it was finished. Dismissing the pain and fatigue with an ease born of years of practice, he threw himself into the task at hand. Bend – grip the gnome – spin round and round – throw it out – bend – grip the gnome – spin round and round – throw it out – bend –

He felt suddenly dizzy and dropped to his knees in the grass. Oh, _no_! It wouldn't do to faint, not here anyway, they'd _notice_. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out…

"Harry!" A strong arm was round his shoulders, a strong hand was in his, helping him up, leading him to the shade of a tree.

He snapped back to alertness at the pain of Ron trying to get him to squat down and lean his back against the big oak. "I'm all right," Harry forced out, and tumbled into a facedown position on the grass. He rolled onto his right side, which was less bruised than his left, to peer up at Ron standing in front of him, delivering a trademark Weasley tirade.

"…Mum'll have my head if she finds out you got heat-stroke! Why didn't you say something? I'm knackered, I could do with a rest too, you know! I'm going inside for some cold lemonade and don't you dare move till I get back! Let's just hope Mum doesn't find out…" He stormed off towards the house, still vituperating.

Later, when Ron had brought the lemonade and sandwiches, and they were sitting in the shade, Ron had earnestly entreated, "Harry, next time you get tired, could you just _say_ so? I swear, You-Know-Who's got nothing on Mum when she's in one of her protective moods. And if she thinks I've been overtiring you or something, you don't want to know what she's like."

_Does she beat you with a stick?_ Harry wanted to ask, but instead concentrated on answering the question. "I'm not used to it," he said thoughtfully, "but I'll try."

Ron had looked at him lazily, munching on ham and cheese. "What do you mean you're not used to it?" he said with his mouth full.

Through a bite of his sandwich, Harry answered without thinking, "I don't usually stop in the middle of chores to say I'm getting tired. Who would I tell, anyway?"

Ron's eyes narrowed. "What d'you mean?"

Harry considered, then decided it was safe to say, "Well, I just, um, don't usually have anyone to chat with at Privet Drive, so I don't talk much when I'm working. The Dursleys just let me take care of the chores without much interference, and you can bet Dudley didn't help out. So I'd just keep going till I got it done."

"Keep going till you dropped, more like," Ron muttered. "What did they do, say you couldn't have any food till you'd finished your chores?"

Harry's breath caught and he searched frantically for something to say to make him think he'd guessed wrong, or hide the truth. Ron had hit the nail on the head, because they _had_. And even then, there wasn't much food, either. Not only that, but if they'd caught him 'lazing around' instead of working there'd be a pinch or a kick or something, which he'd pretend didn't hurt, so he'd learned to just keep at it even if he was all in, and – what could he _say?_ – He had to say SOMETHING! – and…

The silence had dragged on too long. Ron choked on his sandwich. Swallowing with difficulty, he swung round violently to face Harry. "They _did!_"

Harry looked back at Ron, and with Slytherin coldness calculated that it was better for Ron to know about _this_ than the _other_, so he said, "Well, yeah…"

Ron jumped to his feet and prowled around. "_Bastards!_ I could kill them!" he raged, and pounded his fist against the tree trunk. "How _dare_ they!"

Harry watched him, oddly moved that Ron should be ranting and raving on his behalf. "It's not so bad," he said placatingly.

"Yeah, it is!" Ron fumed. "No wonder you're skin and bone – um, no offence, I just meant you were a little underweight, sorry…" He trailed off in embarrassment, and for this Harry was grateful.

"Look, Ron, it's really okay. I'm staying here till the end of the holidays and your Mum's definitely going to make up for lost time," Harry said, trying to close the subject on a cheery note.

"Yeah, I guess," Ron flopped down on the grass again, his face screwed up as though he had eaten something that disagreed with him, "but you've got to start eating more, mate. You hardly touch a thing at the table. Mum'll go bonkers if you keep this up."

The best defence, Harry decided, was a good offence. "You sound just like your Mum," he jibed. "Look, it's a bit of a jolt from boiled cabbage and mummified chicken to kippers and streaky bacon. I'll get used to it. Just give it a rest, OK? On the other hand," he said, a mischievous glint coming into his eye, "if you're finished with that sandwich, you can give me half…"

"No fear," Ron took a big bite out of his Weasley pyramid, and the moment had passed, though he did see smouldering anger in Ron's eyes from time to time.

* * *

Harry's train of thought was broken by Ron's voice. "'S me, Harry! Can I come in?" 

"Yeah," he replied, tensing up.

There was the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung inwards, propelled by Ron's shoulder, and his red-headed friend entered backwards, balancing a tray piled high with food and drink. "Piece of cake," he said, as he set the tray down on the bedside table. "Told them we were staying in today to do our summer homework. Mum was over the moon. The twins complained no end, it was worth it just to see their faces… _Stay where you are!_" he rapped out as Harry tried to sit up.

"I'm not an invalid," Harry said in some annoyance.

Ron rolled his eyes. "'Course not, you're in the flipping pink of health, aren't you?" He extricated a small jar from under a roll. "Nicked this off Mum while she was making us up a tray. I want to try a bit of it on you, so just hang on a mo…"

"Try it on me? What am I, a guinea pig?" Harry bantered.

"No, guinea pigs are fat little beggars. Right now you'd make a halfway decent Bowtruckle." Harry felt the sheet being pulled gently down his back.

"Bowtruckle? What's that?"

"Some sort of stick-insect, I think…" Harry cast about for repartee, but found himself going 'ouch' instead as something twinged. "Sorry, you got stuck to the sheet a bit there with all that perfectly healthy bleeding you've been doing, pulled one of your healthy scabs off –" Ron's sharp intake of breath belied his sardonic tone.

"I'm fine, really," Harry said, which earned him another snort from Ron.

"Right," his friend fumed as he unscrewed the stiff jar with his teeth, " 'I alwaych cake a hungreg waschech gechore gweachast.'"

"_What_?"

Ron, having got the jar open, spat out the lid. "I _said_, 'I always take a hundred lashes before breakfast. Really bracing and all that, don't you know? Nothing like a good whipping to get the old circulation going, old chap…'"

"Oh, come on—" Harry's sharp retort was stifled as Ron's rough hand slid across his aching, tender back, spreading cool salve on his blisters. He stiffened. "Ah."

Ron snatched his hand back. "Sorry. Does it hurt?"

"No, not a bit," Harry said hurriedly.

Not moving, Ron rolled his eyes. "I mean, is it making your back - which has got to be hurting you quite a bit unless you've got giant blood, which judging by your height you certainly _didn't_ have last time I checked - hurt any worse than it did before?"

"Git," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Midget," Ron retorted good-naturedly. "So, is it? Making it worse, I mean?"

"No," Harry said. "It's quite soothing, as a matter of fact."

"Good," Ron said firmly, and proceeded to gently smooth the salve all over Harry's back and the thick scabs on his bottom. At first Harry tensed, expecting more of the irritation that he felt when his clothing touched his broken skin, but Ron's fingers were gentle and his touch comforting, and he gradually relaxed and began to enjoy it. The coolness was bliss against the burning of the welts, and he was sure he moaned with relief once or twice. "You sure I'm not hurting you?" Ron's worried voice permeated his haze of contentment.

"No," he said, and yawned.

"Oh, by the way, this muck makes you a bit sleepy. S'pose I should have told you that before?" Ron said sheepishly.

Harry yawned again, already floating. "Mmm… you should've…"

He was dimly aware of a soft kiss on his hair as he drifted off.

* * *

Lightly covering Harry's sleeping form with the soft cotton sheet, Ron fretted. He didn't usually fret, but this time he fretted. The Hilda's Handy Household Helper salve he'd given Harry was next to useless on these wounds, from what he could see. His Mum used it on them when they'd… he thought for a bit… fallen off brooms and got banged up, and she used it on herself when she got cooking burns or something, or anything that bled a lot or looked halfway more serious than _Episkey. _Anything worse than _that_ was a matter for the family mediwitch.

He frowned. _Episkey_ was out of the question; he couldn't use magic without raising enough questions to betray Harry not just to his parents but to the Ministry, and he could imagine that Harry would rather go back to his relatives' for the rest of the summer than have that happen. More to the point, if the salve wasn't doing anything much, the simple healing incantation might not be enough, either. Calling in the mediwitch was out of the question, unless he wanted to betray Harry's trust, and this was looking more of an inevitability with every second. All right, the damage he'd seen on Harry's back didn't look life-threatening or anything, but he didn't think it was anything to sneeze at, either. He didn't see how Harry was going to get through this without help, and he didn't see how he was going to be able to keep Harry's secret, and he didn't see how Harry was going to heal in time to get back to school…

Burying his head in his hands, Ron sighed, growing more confused by the second. He needed help, and he couldn't ask anyone for help, because Harry had sworn him to secrecy…

_Hermione_. The welcome thought hit him like a bolt from the blue, and he almost jumped up in elation. She would know what to do. And Harry trusted her, so it wasn't really betraying a confidence; even if it was, he didn't care. She had to know, and tell him what to do. Maybe she'd know what Muggles did about this kind of thing; he was fairly certain that beatings this severe were not the norm, even for Muggles. And she could tell him what kind of potions and remedies to give Harry; he could easily administer them without his Mum or anyone knowing and—

His train of thought derailed abruptly. Medicines cost Galleons, and money was the one thing he did not have.

Flipping _hell_! He flopped onto the floor on his back in frustration. This wasn't a Cauldron Cake or a Christmas present – this was important. With a practiced mental eye, he reviewed his sources of money. Three Knuts in his sock drawer represented his financial position at the moment. He could sell his old rat, he supposed, but who'd want him? He didn't see anyone wanting a Weasley jumper. His owl, Pig? Not that he'd miss the silly, excitable fluffball, he thought hurriedly, of _course_ not, but more to the point, Pig would be missed and there would be explanations to make, which put him right back to square one. If he hadn't wanted to keep Harry's secret, he could march down to his Mum right now and tell her Harry was hurt. Have to plug his ears first, though, he grinned mentally…

Damn it all, anyway, this was no time to be skint. Perhaps his old schoolbooks, now there was a thought – but no, Ginny was starting next year, and she'd need those. The Chocolate Frog cards he'd amassed weren't rare, and he doubted they would fetch anything. _Why is nothing I own worth anything? _Ron thought in frustration. _Pity I can't sell my freckles for a Knut each._

Right. No possessions, nothing to sell. Working for it was too slow. He couldn't steal, it was just – he _couldn't_. That left borrowing. He hoped Hermione had some Wizarding money. But no – she always changed money at Gringotts' at the start of the school year.

He sighed. Only one thing for it then: rummage around in Harry's trunk and hope he had some cash. Of course, he ought to ask first, but if he did, Harry would just say he was all right or something ridiculous like that. He'd tell him after the fact.

Decision made, he opened the trunk. It didn't feel right, somehow, but looking at Harry's sheet-covered form, rising and falling gently with each breath, gave him the strength he needed, and he pushed the heavy lid wide.

"At last! What kept you?"

Jumping back in shock, Ron landed on his bottom, a hand over his pounding heart. "Wha!" he babbled, looking at Harry, still sleeping like a log.

"Well, that's a fine welcome, I must say. Still, I was wondering when someone was going to rescue the lad."

Getting to his knees, Ron looked into the trunk again. "What…"

"My, my, you're a good-looking one, I must say. Always preferred redheads meself, but when you're a mirror, you can't be too particular."

Gingerly, Ron fumbled for it among Harry's clothes. Finally, he lifted it out: a tiny hand mirror with a faded silver frame. It barely fit into his palm. "Hello," he said.

"And a very good morning to you too, me fine lad. Ah, you've got him to rest at last, have you? Fair broke my heart to see them tormenting him, making him slave away all day like that. And after the severe discipline they gave him, too! Never did anything to deserve it, either. A fine young lad, the image of his mother…"

"Just a minute," Ron felt this conversation was fast getting away from him. "You knew Harry's Mum?"

"Used to be her mirror, the poor dear," the mirror said conversationally. "Made my way with the boy's things to his new home – if it can be called a home – and hid. Old magical objects are pretty good at not being found when they want to, you know. I've belonged to the Potter family's ladies for centuries. Where was I? Oh yes, I thought I'd watch over him. For his poor dear Mum's sake, you know. She was so good to me, always gave me a bit of a polish when I needed it…"

"This is all very interesting," said Ron, "but I've got to get some money for Harry's medicine." Struck with a thought, he addressed himself to the mirror. "You wouldn't happen to know where he keeps his Wizarding money, would you?"

"But of course, dearie! Wrapped in the brown socks, next to the History of Magic textbook in the left-hand corner."

In seconds, Ron was clutching Harry's moneybag. He counted out twenty gold Galleons – he was pretty sure that would be enough for anything – and put the purse carefully back into its hiding place. "Thanks," he said. "Um, 'scuse me." He stuffed the garrulous mirror back in the suitcase, and set about writing to Hermione.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione unfolded the parchment, smiling.

Then she gasped. As she read on, she began to cry. The words blurred as tears streamed down her face. With difficulty, she read it through to the end.

* * *

Dear Hermione,

Hope you're all right. Hermione, I need your help. Harry's Muggle relatives have been beating him, I think with a stick or some such. I happened to get a look at Harry when we were getting changed and he's pretty well banged up. He won't let me tell Mum or Dad or anyone. I used some of our household salve on him, but it's not working all that well. I don't know what to do. Hermione, could you research some salves or draughts or something that'll heal him? I can't use any healing spells or talk to anyone but you. Harry's really dodgy about anyone at all knowing. I can send Errol to buy whatever you come up with from Diagon Alley. I don't know what to do about his Muggle relatives right now, but maybe when you get here we can see if anything can be done about them.

I suppose I ought to tell you as much as possible so you can work out what to use. His back and – well, his behind – are just covered with bruises and the skin's all sort of torn up and raw. I think we need something to close cuts that still bleed if he moves. They split open a lot. He said something about a stick. There are big, thick scabs over a lot of his back, and his bottom as well. And there's also rather nasty purple welts, some of them are a bit raw, and there are white blisters with sort of water in them, I think. Sorry to tell you all this, but I thought you'd want to know what to use.

I'm really sorry about this, Hermione. I can't wait till you get here.

Ron

* * *

Wiping her face, she read it again, with renewed determination.

Then she took the letter and walked slowly to her desk. She pulled out _Moste Potente Potions_, _Home Remedies for the Wizarding Novice_, _A Guide to Healing Herbs_, _Abridged Wizarding Pharmacopeia_,and _Common Plants of the British Isles and their Uses_, spread the letter out with a couple of paperweights, sighed, opened the first of the thick tomes, took out a fresh copybook and began taking notes.

* * *

Ron lay sprawled on the floor, doodling on the margin of the parchment. He'd dragged out his Potions and Transfiguration texts, thinking that the appearance of work was the next best thing to actually working, spread quills and paper all over the floor, and was now diagramming a formation where Quaffles could be sort of forced to stay on one end of the pitch. It would require more than two Chasers, though… he was back to football again. He cursed the day he'd let Hermione tell him about it, and double-cursed the day he'd looked it up in a book of his Dad's. Those ideas were all very well when the balls didn't have a mind of their own, but…

He grinned wryly. Balls did have a mind of their own, and what was attached to them, as well. The past couple of years had been hard, as he had started to develop things he'd not been sure existed. Bill and Charlie had had separate versions of The Talk with him, and he was grateful, but it didn't mean he felt any more comfortable when he woke up feeling as if he'd forgotten his wand in bed by mistake, and it had just got a lot thicker…

He rolled onto his side and had to fight off the urge to slip into bed and give Harry a cuddle. The poor little fellow – _Harry's not little, he'd have your guts for garters if he caught you saying that_ – but he _was_, short and bony and underweight, and Ron just wanted to comfort him and tell him everything would be all right, that he would never let anything hurt him. He wanted to heal him and make him better and hold himuntil he felt completely protected and safe and loved. Right. As if Harry wouldn't punch him in the nose for doing that.

For some reason, his heart was pounding. It really was much too hot in here today. He turned resolutely back to his diagrams.

* * *

"For the hundredth time, Harry, will you take it easy!"

"Ron," Harry sighed, "I'm all right. Give it a rest, would you?"

Ron huffed, turning back to the bait. The garden had an infestation of pixies, and the only way to get rid of them in the wild like this was to trick them into picking up charmed 'bribes' – shiny objects, coins, beads and trinkets, secreted under flowers and stones frequented by the tiny pests. The charm on the object barred its new owner from entering the garden; the moment they put it in their pockets, the pixies found themselves forcibly Disapparated outside the wards.

Which was all well and good, only Harry was absolutely refusing to lie in the shade and rest. Apart from lunch and dinner – and seeing Harry shifting uncomfortably in his seat during the meals had not helped his appetite – his friend had spent the whole of yesterday dozing in bed, under the influence of the salve that Ron insisted on reapplying, and had put his foot down this morning.

"Where d'you think you're going?" Ron had asked Harry upon rising to find him dressed.

"Out. Your Mum said it's pixie day today, didn't she?"

Ron sat up in bed. "You can't seriously be thinking of going out in that state!"

"I did all right yesterday. And the day before." Harry balanced on one foot, putting his shoes on standing up. His sharp intake of breath as he bent over to tie the laces did not escape Ron.

"But you're not well!" Ron said stupidly.

"I'm perfectly all right."

"Yeah, let's have a look then…" He reached for the hem of Harry's shirt. Harry twisted out of the way, but not before Ron got a good look at his welts and blisters, which did not look noticeably improved.

Harry stood up straight and glared. "I am not staying in bed again today!"

"That's what _you_ think."

"Ron, believe it or not, I'm _fine_."

"Want a pat on the back then?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Leave it, all right? It's not as though I haven't had worse! I'll be as good as new in a few days!"

He ran a brush through his hair and straightened his T-shirt, and was halfway out the door before Ron had unfrozen enough to ask:

"What d'you mean, you've had worse?"

Now it was Harry's turn to freeze, poised in the doorway, on the verge of flight. He opened his mouth, frowning, looking as though he was about to make a harsh retort, and his eyes flicked briefly to Ron's, holding them for a mere fraction of a second. But in that instant Ron was sure he had seen trust in Harry's gaze, and his friend's features relaxed into a wry smile.

"What I said," Harry shrugged, still with that lopsided grin, already turning to go. Then he was gone, running downstairs to the bustle of a Weasley breakfast.

And now he was absolutely refusing to rest, and it was driving Ron mad as he knelt alongside him in the long grass. He'd hardly put out his share of bribes, he was so preoccupied with watching Harry. The task involved a lot of bending, kneeling and crouching on all fours; his best mate was performing flawlessly, yet now that he was looking for it, Ron could see that he was sore. Harry looked studiedly nonchalant, but he favoured his aching back, bending stiffly, his movements slow and careful. As he watched, Harry pressed the flat of his hand against his bruised side, gasping for breath – yet the pace of his work never slowed.

Ron's vision suddenly clouded with rage, and the question burst out of him before he could stop it. "Do they make you work when you've been beaten as well?"

Harry kept his gaze steadfastly on the bushes and smiled again, that curious, almost paternal smile. "What do _you_ think?"

In that moment, he looked much older, and to Ron's mortification, he found his own eyes filling with tears. How _dare_ anyone do that to Harry! He'd kill them, he'd… He knuckled his eyes, embarrassed. He was nearly twelve, for crying out loud, much too old to blub like a baby! Looking down at the grass, he muttered, "Sorry."

But then he felt a hand on his shoulder, patting him awkwardly. "It's all right, Ron, really," Harry was saying soothingly. "You get used to it after a while, honestly. And I bring it on myself sometimes, so lots of times I get what's coming to me."

Ron jerked away. "Don't _say_ that!" he snapped. "Don't _ever_ say that! _Nobody_ has that coming to them, least of all you!"

Harry looked surprised. "I'm not saying I deserved it…"

"I should hope not."

"…but there's things I know are going to earn me a few knocks, and I keep on doing them anyway."

"Such as?" Ron asked, trying to come to terms with the cavalier attitude.

"Well, calling Dudley a pig in a wig, for one."

Ron sniggered. He couldn't help it.

"…and, oh – hmm, I remember when Dudley was trying to act all tough, and he said, "They stuff people's heads down the toilet at Smeltings, want to come upstairs and practice?" Ron stared, his mouth open. "I remember saying, "No thanks – the poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it, it might be sick."

Ron gaped for a second, then exploded into such fits of laughter he was half-afraid _he_ might be sick.

Harry laughed along with him, then, seeming encouraged, went on explaining, in that chillingly matter-of-fact tone, "I really don't get punished that much, couple whacks at a time, but they do tend to add up a bit if I'm in a snarky mood."

The smile was wiped right off Ron's face. Affecting great casualness, he rolled over onto his back, making a noncommittal grunting noise. He watched as Harry rose and went back to work. He couldn't think of any excuse to stop him that would actually work or go over well, so he just kept an eye on him as he bent and laid the traps slowly, carefully, with a serious concentration that broke Ron's heart.

He was more than relieved when they finally went in to dinner.

Throughout the meal, he was distracted.Errol wasn't back yet, and he hoped Hermione was doing something. Or that she would just write back! He wanted to talk to someone about this – he felt he might go mad if he had to keep thinking about it and not understanding. Harry was no good to talk to, he seemed to believe that this was just one of those things, like a cold or magical leakage, that you had to just put up with – and _that_ was one of the things Ron needed help understanding.

For the twentieth time, his eyes flicked over to Harry. The salve seemed to have helped, in that he could now sit down to meals without jumping up at the earliest opportunity, but what was hurting Ron was the intense concentration that Harry applied to the simplest of tasks, raising a forkful of peas to his mouth with the focus he might apply to Transfiguration. _It takes that much work to hide it,_ he thought with a shiver. The memory of the Quidditch game flashed across his mind again. _No wonder he couldn't stay on his bloody broom if it's this much work to eat his peas._

Noticing the twins looking at him staring at Harry, he resolutely lowered his eyes. It was too late, though; they had seen something was up, and seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in whispering and nudging each other, waggling their eyebrows and winking at Ron in much the same way they did at Ginny when Harry was at the table. Ron began to feel his ears going red. _What's up with them?_ he thought exasperatedly.

All in all, it was a relief when the meal was over. In no mood for the traditional gathering, Ron headed upstairs, beckoning shortly to Harry to follow him and muttering something about Transfiguration homework, but it appeared his evening wasn't over yet as Fred and George rushed up ahead of him and Harry, and waylaid them at the top of the stairs.

"What's your hurry, little bro?"

"Don't want to spend time with your ever-loving family?"

It was at moments like these that Ron really, really wanted to hex them. "Push off." He tried to step around them, but they blocked his path easily.

"Seems he has something more interesting to do, doesn't it, Gred?"

"Indeed it does, Forge."

Harry exchanged a panicked glance with Ron, and Ron shook his head as unobtrusively as possible to show Harry that he hadn't breathed a word to the twins.

"Care to enlighten us?"

Ron's face grew hard. "If you must know, we've got to get our Transfiguration homework done before Hermione gets here or she'll have our heads on a plate. Now will you please push off?" Again he attempted to step around them, and was blocked. Harry was standing perfectly still; Ron noted vaguely that the twins had never been aggressive towards him before, and he was looking confused and slightly hurt in addition to the fear of exposure that was becoming more pronounced with every second.

"Oh, _home_work."

"How very commendable."

"You must forgive us if we don't quite believe you…"

"Look, I know you're pissed off because of being grounded, but don't take it out on us," Ron tried to take the offensive.

George looked hurt. "Why, Ron, how could you say that? We hold nothing but the deepest affection for you two," he said with mock-gravity, and draped an arm round Ron, who was closest to him. Fred mirrored the gesture, and slung a friendly arm round Harry's sore shoulders.

Harry tensed.

He didn't flinch, he didn't wince, he didn't make a sound, but when Ron saw his body go rigid, he saw red. "Get your hands OFF HIM!" he bellowed. "Don't you have anything better to do than take the mickey out of us? Get lost, I mean it!"

But for some reason, the twins seemed less intimidated than amused. No, beyond amused – _expecting_ this outburst.

"Ooh, touchy."

"You're a jealous one, aren't you, mate?" George dropped his arm, and Fred mirrored the gesture. Harry, though, did not relax. "Got to control yourself there."

"Yeah, just consider it a word of friendly advice from your older and wiser brothers."

"After all, we're on your side. Hot-blooded Weasleys too and all that."

"Yeah, we won't breathe a word to little sis about this…"

Harry, still tense, looked at Ron in confusion. "About _what_? Doing our Transfiguration homework? Is that supposed to be pervy or something?" he said to them with a flash of his old spirit. But then he turned worriedly to Ron. "What's going on, Ron?" he said doubtfully, and there was a hint of accusation in his tone.

"Damned if I know," Ron said desperately. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to think he'd told the twins or…

But George shushed them. "Nonono, mustn't make trouble in paradise!" he said, ruffling Ron's hair. He really had gone barmy tonight, him and his twin both, Ron thought. "Come on, Gred, let's leave these young pups to their own devices."

"I don't know," Fred said as he stepped to his twin's side. "Starting awfully young, aren't they?"

"Starting _what_?" Ron snapped. "You're starting to get on my nerves!"

They both wore friendly, slightly knowing smiles. "Oh, nothing, little bro…"

"…nothing at all." Giving him a hearty clap on the back, George set off down the corridor, and Ron looked to his twin just in time to see Fred raising his big hand high into the air and swinging it down, delivering a thunderous brotherly slap squarely on Harry's back, with a deafening crack that echoed through the hallway like someone Apparating.

The world swam before Ron's eyes for a fraction of a second. Harry stifled a cry as he staggered forward. Almost without volition, Ron jumped forward to catch him, watching helplessly as Harry's eyes filled involuntarily, his face twisting with his effort not to let the twins see the disproportionate agony the blow had caused.

"You_ bastard!_" he shouted, quite beside himself. Even if Harry had been perfectly all right, that clout would have hurt – it was deliberately aimed hard, with bruising impact. But on flesh already welted and torn from that awful thrashing, well, he couldn't comprehend how Harry managed to stay on his feet. No longer caring about the twins' teasing, he gathered a gasping Harry into the protective circle of his arms, careful not to touch his back, which he was sure was hurting like blue blazes. "Why don't you bloody well leave us alone?"

"Oh, touchy, touchy." Fred moved towards them. "I was just showing Harry how much we care about him, can't you take a joke?" And he raised his hand to thump Harry on the back again.

Ron's blood ran cold, and he shoved Harry aside and was nose-to-nose with his elder brother in a moment. "I'll hex you," he grated out. "I swear."

Fred seemed to find this hilarious, but stepped back, hands upraised. "Oh, I'm scared!" he laughed. George led him away with a hand on his shoulder.

"Protective little thing, isn't he?" George chuckled as they retreated. Singing some strange song that went, "All You Need is Love," George and Fred disappeared down the corridor to their room. Laughing, George picked Fred up and carried him over the threshold. Then the door closed behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

Important notes: PLEASE READ THESE FIRST:

In answer to the many reviews that have asked if this is going to be slash – best expressed by Spice of Life's delightful "Are you like, going to jump out at us and scream, 'SURPRISE!SLASH!' anytime now?" the answer is: (Un)fortunately, no, actually, this was just a slashy tangent that goes no further. I mean, Ron and Harry are twelve in this, so regardless of how the kids all turn out when they grow up, thinking about each other, or about girls, is about as far as they go - even in canon, it wasn't until, let's see, Book 4, that any of them came right out and admitted being attracted to somebody . However, you can imagine what you wish ;)

WARNING. This chapter will _hint_ at TWINCEST. Yes, love between the twins. It's spoken of or implied, not described, but if this offends you, consider yourself forewarned.

* * *

Out of sight, out of mind. Ron turned back to Harry, breathing raspily and leaning against the wall. His friend raised his eyes to meet his. "I'm all right," he forced out, his voice thin and tight with pain. Ron opened the door to the room and jerked his head at Harry. _Inside_.

Ron closed and locked the door behind them to find Harry standing in the middle of the room, feet planted apart defiantly. "Lie down," he ordered peremptorily, in no mood for mock heroics.

Harry fixed him with a Look. "I'm fi…"

"And take your shirt off while you're about it."

Harry glared at him. "I'm not…"

"Want me to tell Mum?"

Harry glared harder. "Are you _sure_ you haven't told the twins?"

Ron sighed, in exasperation. "_No_, you prat. If Fred had known he wouldn't have thumped you like that. I don't know what they were on about, but-I-expect-we'll-know-soon-enough-now-will-you-please-lie-_down_!" The last words rushed out of him in frustration and worry.

"Might as well." Harry gripped the hem of his T-shirt and made to peel it off. "Mmnh." Ron looked sharply at him as he took several deep breaths in preparation for the agonizing task of taking off his shirt.

"Oh, hang on a mo, you've got it caught in your mumblewumble…" Affecting a casual tone, Ron hooked his hands under the shirt and pulled it over Harry's head, holding it away from his back as he did so, noticing the way Harry huffed with relief as he lowered his arms. Something would _have_ to be done, and soon. If Hermione hadn't written back by tomorrow…

"Thanks," Harry was breathing hard with the pain, and Ron took it as a good sign that he didn't ask what his shirt had been caught on, exactly. Stiffly, he laid himself face-down on the bed, and managed a grin. "Ron? Hate to tell you this, old chap, but your brothers are mental."

"Now maybe you'll believe me." Ron knelt beside him and grimaced. The imprint of Fred's hand was clearly visible on Harry's thin back, swollen, scarlet finger-marks overlaying the bruises. Everywhere the explosive slap had landed, it had broken blisters and cracked open scabs; Ron cursed to see the blood welling, mixing with the blister-fluid. He reached over to a drawer, opening it one-handed, and fished out a clean handkerchief. Gingerly, he started to pat the injuries dry, but the material had barely touched the inflamed skin when Harry flinched violently, stifling a cry. "Sorry," Ron said guiltily, alarmed. He placed one feather-light finger on the bruised areas, now glowing red from the slap, and snatched it away, shocked; the flesh was burning hot. He took a deep breath, considered going into the twins' room and pounding Fred, decided against it, and took out the jar of salve. Wasting no time, he scooped some of the cool cream into his fingers and spread it thickly over the hand-shaped imprint.

"Ah," Harry groaned with relief – at least Ron hoped it was relief. He went on applying the salve, not daring to rub it in or touch the inflamed flesh at all, just spreading a thick layer of it with the side of his hand as though he were icing a cake. "This is better than flying," Harry sighed. "That's amazing, Ron."

"We aim to please," Ron said, trying for lightness, and enjoyed hearing Harry's sighs of relief as his back became invisible beneath the coating of salve. He considered offering to help, but Harry was a touchy devil, so – "Take your pants down."

"Can't we skip it?"

"I can, but _you_ can't," Ron snapped, "or shall I take 'em off for you?"

"Bossy git."

"Stubborn midget."

"Will you give the midget thing a rest?"

Ron grinned; the salve had obviously eased Harry's pain if he as able to joke like this. "I will if you take your pants off."

Harry unzipped Dudley's old jeans – rather unnecessary as they were only held up by the belt anyway – and pushed them and his pants down his hips. Halfway down, though, they snagged against one of the raised scabs on his bottom, peeling it halfway off, and he let out a little involuntary cry.

Losing his patience, Ron reached out and pulled Harry's clothes the rest of the way down. "Will you stop being a stubborn git and let me put this bloody cream on your arse? It made you feel better last night, didn't it?"

Harry huffed with annoyance. "No need to rub it in."

"Rub what in?" Ron asked mischievously, relieved that Harry had regained some of his feisty spirit.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron, either do it or let me go to sleep!"

"Since you asked so nicely," Ron smiled, pleased to have his friend back. Although, he mused, the effect was only temporary, relieving pain more than healing as such. Gritting his teeth, he lifted up the peeled-off scab and slipped the salve into the gaping wound underneath; he snatched his hand away as Harry cried out in earnest, a raw sound of pain that broke Ron's heart. "Oh bollocks, Harry, did I hurt you?"

"No, I always scream like this to pass the time," Harry's snarky tone was laced with pain, and Ron barked with laughter, and touched Harry's head as he went on, his voice getting stronger as the pain receded. "'Course it hurts, you thickhead. I know you want to get it in there, but there's no need to amputate my bum!"

Ron stroked Harry's hair absently. "Ampertaste?"

"Amputate," Harry sighed. "Muggle thing. Means cut off."

"Muggles _cut off_ bits of you?" Ron gasped in horror.

"Only when they're – um," Harry searched for an appropriate description, "really diseased and might poison your body if you didn't."

Ron mulled this over. "Well, in that case," he opined, "we could always ampertaste your arse. Save everyone a lot of trouble, it wouldn't hurt any more…"

Harry smiled, playing along. "Now _that_ would make an interesting trophy on somebody's wall."

"Not really, too bony," Ron played along.

"Yours isn't that much fatter, superior git."

"Oi, watch who you're insulting! Your arse is in my hands."

Harry yawned, looking as if he was trying to stay awake. "Right, well, could you finish up already, I've been patiently waiting for you to shut your trap!"

Ron grinned and scooped out another handful of salve – the jar must be bottomless, he thought, he wondered where his Mum had ever been able to afford a bottomless jar – but stopped dead at the flicker of fear in Harry's eyes. "What is it?" he asked gently.

Harry looked at the sheets, refusing to meet Ron's gaze. "Nothing, 's all right," he snapped. "My favourite thing in the world, it is, to just lie here like a sack of flour."

Ron didn't even think of taking the bait, saying softly, "It hurts when I do that, doesn't it?"

"No," Harry said vehemently, "it feels wonderful. It's just…"

"I won't hurt you this time, I promise."

"You didn't hurt me, you just…"

"Harry," Ron sighed, "of course it hurts." He bit back the rest of his sentence: _How do you think I feel seeing you in pain, not showing it, knowing I can't help you_… "I'll be gentle this time. Sorry I hurt you before."

"You didn't…"

"Yeah, yeah." Ron spread the salve over Harry's scabbed thighs first, and was rewarded with an 'Ah!' of relief from his friend. "See?" he said. He was very slow this time, murmuring gently, "Ssh, 's all right, tell me if I hurt you," hearing nothing but Oh's and Ah's of relief. He salved Harry's buttocks and thighs thoroughly, noting with dismay that sitting down was making the scabs split and then heal with yet more raised crusts, which he knew would be murder to sit on. On his third handful, Harry was fast asleep, breathing evenly.

* * *

Fred had barely gotten into the room when he pulled out a matchbox containing a tiny beetle. It sniffed the air delightedly, and crawled out onto his hand, reveling in its newfound freedom. "Time for our bug, don't you think, Forge?"

"Oh, definitely, Gred."

George opened his window and let the tiny beetle out onto the ledge, watching it scamper along the sill to Ron's room, trailing a miniscule thread behind it. As George payed out the thread, Fred connected the end to a cone formed out of cardboard. "Good thing they left the window open," his twin mused as the beetle made its way to the sill and settled there. George shook the rolled-up paper once and tinny voices echoed through the cone.

"_Lie down." _

"Ooh, that's our Ron! Listen to him giving orders in the bedroom."

"Shut up, George, I want to listen!"

"_And take your shirt off while you're about it."_

Fred looked uncomfortable. "I don't remember being this bossy at our age."

"You may not remember it, but I do."

"They're only twelve, for Merlin's sake!"

"_Are you _sure_ you haven't told the twins?"_

_"No, you prat…"_

"Right, as if we needed telling."

"They were so bloody obvious with Ron making sheep's eyes at Harry at dinner, like he'd explode or something if Ron wasn't there to take care of him."

"Yeah. How come you never look at _me_ like that?"

"That's different."

"Oh, yes, how is it different?"

"Shut up and listen."

"…_Mmnh..." _Harry moaned.

George looked uncomfortable. "Are you sure we ought to be listening to this?"

"Shut up."

"_Oh, hang on a mo, you've got it caught in your mumblewumble…_" came Ron's voice. 

George began to blush, but grinned gamely. "We've got to work on getting a picture for that thing."

"_Thanks,"_ came Harry's voice, followed by heavy breathing. Then they heard the bed creaking.

"No thanks," Fred snapped. "Do you really want to see your little brother engaged in acts of perversion?"

"Well, I watch my twin brother doing 'em every night."

"That's different, you're doing 'em with me."

"Your point?"

"Shut up and listen."

"_Mmm,"_ came a groan from Harry.

"Ron does seem to be taking the initiative here, doesn't he?"

"_This is better than flying,"_ came Harry's tinny sigh. _"That's amazing, Ron."_

Both faces were crimson now.

"_We aim to please,"_ came Ron's voice, and then nothing but Harry's sighs.

Fred and George exchanged awed glances. "Never would have thought it of him."

"I wonder what he's doing to him."

"I can give you a few suggestions," Fred whispered into George's ear.

"Shut up," George wasn't sure whether his heart was pounding with arousal or embarrassment, "what I want to know is, where did he pick that _up_?"

"Our Ron must be pretty good, though, to make Harry sound like that," Fred mused, just as their younger brother's voice came through, strong and assertive:

"_Take your pants down."_

Fred squawked. George grinned.

_"Can't we skip it?"_

"Oh, Harry, holding out on our little…"

"I_ can, but _you_ can't,"_ came Ron's testy voice, _"or shall I take 'em off for you?"_

"Ooh, Harry likes it rough, does he? And Ron's no slouch either," George smiled. Fred was turning green and murmuring something about little brother sex being just _wrong_.

"_Bossy git."_

"_Stubborn midget."_

"_Will you give the midget thing a rest?"_

"_I will if you take your pants off."_

"Oh, he _is_ a bossy git."

"I can't _believe_ Ron had it in him."

Then came the sound of a Muggle zip being opened, and then fumbling noises. The twins exchanged glances and looked hurriedly away, their faces crimson.

Ron's next words stunned them.

_"Will you stop being a stubborn git and let me put this bloody cream on your arse? It made you feel better last night, didn't it?"_

"Bloody hell!" the twins exclaimed simultaneously, then looked at each other and spoke at once.

"Should they be doing that at his age?"

"I don't care how precocious he is, we never did _that_ at twelve!"

"Harry's even younger than he is, that shouldn't be allowed…"

_"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron, either do it or let me go to sleep!" _

_"Since you asked so nicely." _

Fred looked at George doubtfully. "Should we tell Mum?"

George just looked at him.

"Okay, okay, that's stupid, but it's just… _wrong_, I don't think they should, I don't think _Ron_ should…"

"What's your problem? Harry's enjoying it, isn't he?"

Just then, Harry's tinny scream came through the cone, followed by Ron's voice, full of love and concern._ "Oh bollocks, Harry, did I hurt you?"_

"_No, I always scream like this to pass the time."_

"See, what did I tell you? They're too young, Ron's hurting him…"

Harry's voice came through again, sounding stronger. _"'Course it hurts, you thickhead. I know you want to get it in there_…"

Any further thing Harry might have said was drowned out by Fred and George's high-pitched shrieks.

"Oh my Goodness!"

"Listen to him talk! 'Get it in there' – ugh! He's corrupting our Ron!"

"Well, yeah, but our Ron's giving it to him up the bum!"

"NOOOO!" Fred shrieked like a girl. "Is that any way for him to behave after how we raised him?"

"Um, Fred."

"Yes, George?"

"How did we raise him?"

"Um, to be a clean-living, upstanding pillar of the commu—" At George's shake of the head, Fred stopped and continued hesitantly, "Um, to follow in our footsteps?"

"Right, which entails?"

"Um, pranking?"

"And?"

"Um, being a rebel?"

"And?"

"Not following the rules?"

"_And_, Gred?"

"…Engaging in unmentionable activities every night?" Fred mumbled sheepishly.

"Got it in one!" George exclaimed triumphantly, interrupted by Ron's voice:

_"…Your arse is in my hands."_

His head dropped into his hands. "Growing up awfully fast these days, aren't they, Gred?"

Harry's voice came through. _"Right, well, could you finish up already, I've been patiently waiting for you to shut your trap!"_

Fred shook his head dispiritedly. "Indeed they are, Forge, indeed they are."

"I don't want to know, I don't want to know…" George was mumbling.

Their heads came up at their younger brother's voice. _"What is it?" _Ron was asking. The gentleness, the concern in his voice made them both fall silent.

Harry's voice, obviously hiding pain. _"Nothing, 's all right... My favourite thing in the world, it is, to just lie here like a sack of flour."_

Fred and George exchanged glances. Despite Harry's sardonic tone, there was no denying the tenderness in the exchange; it was hard to stay outraged in the face of that.

_"It hurts when I do that, doesn't it?"_ Ron's voice, still glowing with affection. 

"_No,"_ Harry again, still in some discomfort, _"it feels wonderful..."_

Fred and George exchanged a glance of brotherly pride in Ron's virility, before the emotion in his voice swept over them again._ "I won't hurt you this time, I promise."_ He had never sounded so affectionate, so full of tenderness.

"_You didn't hurt me, you just…"_

_"Harry,"_ Ron sighed, _"of course it hurts. I'll be gentle this time, I'm sorry I hurt you before."_ The apology was so heartfelt, so full of genuine regret at causing pain… George looked into Fred's face, seeing his own feelings mirrored there;a love he had only ever thought could be shared between – between two halves of a whole.

Ron was still speaking in that unfamiliar, tender, caring tone. _"Ssh, 's all right, tell me if I hurt you,"_ and then there was nothing but Harry's cries of arousal.

It was Fred who finally snapped out of it to yank the thread out of the cone.

"Think we've heard enough, haven't we, Gred?"

"Oh yes, Forge," was the last thing said in the room before they fell upon each other with a ferocious need that surprised even them.


	5. Chapter 5

What can I say? More subtle hints of twincest in this chapter (last time, I think - these characters just get out of hand) and a hint of R/Hr'ishness. Thanks for your reviews. You're the best, people!

Dedicated to DoC in the hope that her computer gets better soon, and to Solstice Muse if she's reading this, for all the pleasure her stories have given me.

* * *

Ron's sleep was disturbed that night, mainly because he was preoccupied with a single thought: Hermione HAD to owl him tomorrow morning, she HAD to.

She didn't.

But that was because he opened his eyes to find her standing there, in his room, in the grey-streaked dawn.

"What—"

"I couldn't get here before, it's murder to get into the Wizarding world if you're a Muggle, did you know that?" She was leaning against the wall, staggering under the weight of what looked like a dozen different satchels, strapped to different parts of her body.

"Muggle-_born_, you're a witch," he corrected absently as he threw off the covers and slipped on a robe over his pyjamas. "How did you—"

"I only just got here," she said, "I slept on the Knight Bus. Your Mum let me in. She said you'd been studying all day yesterday and that you were still asleep." The casual tone slipped a bit. "Ron, tell me what's going on."

He struggled to his feet, ever chivalrous. "Let me help you get these things off first."

She turned and let him remove the heavy satchels, squeaking in protest as her hair got caught in a strap. "Ooh!"

"Ssh, you'll wake Harry." It was murder to get them off her. They felt as though they were full of rocks, and seemed held in place with a number of straps, almost like... "How'd you ever get into that harness, anyway?"

"It's not easy, I can tell you," she gasped with the effort. "I had to buy it specially, and … _Oh_…" Ron noted that her face was beaded with sweat just as she swayed under the load, no longer able to stand.

Ron caught her, steadying her as she regained her balance. _What a brick she is,_ he thought. "Sit on the bed, it'll be easier," he instructed.

"Can't you just do it standing up?" Hermione shrugged ineffectually, weighted down with the satchels full of rocks. No, _boulders_, Ron thought. He tried to fumble with them, but clumps of her hair obscured his view. He batted them away as best he could; it was hopeless. He thought she might faint from the weight before he could liberate her.

"No, that won't work. At least get on your knees, all right? I can't get these _rocks_ off otherwise." He all but threw up his hands in disgust.

"Oh, all right then." She dropped to her knees in relief with a loud thud, but Harry slept on, oblivious. "Look," she said bossily, "Undo this strap first, then the other…" she wiggled a thick brass clasp holding a canvas bag to her left shoulder… "…now the clasp… honestly, one would think you'd never done this before." He growled in his throat, but there was no pause in her bossing: "_That's_ right… now the zip, okay… ah!"

She sighed with relief as the backpacks fell off, and undid her jacket; Ron was flabbergasted to see two huge dragonskin gourds strapped to her under it. Then he grinned with amusement. Each as big as her head, the gourds dangled like the grotesquely large bosoms on a pantomime dame, complete with elongated pouring 'nipples' made of marsh reed and sealed with pitch. He didn't mention this to her; she seemed too modest to even notice the implication. It was a wonder her back hadn't been injured under the weight. "Cor! How did you get the pair of those in there?" he muttered as he reached out to lift them off her.

"Well, you were pretty specific," Hermione said, swiping at her hair. "And I looked everything up." Drenched in sweat, she leaned against his side in exhaustion while still retaining her bossy tone._ How does she do it?_ Ron thought. "Be very careful. _Don't_ squeeze them. Just slip your hands under them gently and lift."

"Oh come on, Hermione, I'm not a complete idiot," he retorted, but nevertheless was extra careful with the containers as he lifted them off her, eliciting a moan of relief – "Uh! They're wobbly!"

"What did you expect?" she huffed exasperatedly, flopping onto her back on the hardwood in relief.

Bloody hell, she was leaving a puddle of sweat on the floor. "You're wet," he said unnecessarily as he turned to the writing-table.

"Want me to get up? Will it stain the floor?" she said solicitously, though her voice was tired.

"No, no," he said hurriedly as he placed the gourds carefully on the desk. "You just lie there and make yourself comfortable while I get these sorted…"

"I'll get up when you've finished, anyway," she promised, then suddenly shrieked, "NOO!"

Ron jumped. "What? What?" he gibbered, looking left and right. You-Know-Who didn't seem to be in the room.

"Don't _squeeze_ them!" Hermione snapped. Apparently his handling of the bloody gourds hadn't been gentle enough for her liking. "Not so fast." He sniggered at her next injunction: "And be _careful_ with the nipples!"

Ron hid a grin. It was funny how girls just didn't seem to notice the things they said. Boys just knew things girls didn't, after all. Feeling very superior and masculine, he followed her instructions. Harry's medicine had cost them both a lot of trouble, so maybe he could live with her supervising him.

But even with Hermione issuing instructions, he felt sorry for her lying on the hard floor like that. Not pausing to analyse why seeing her uncomfortable made his own bones ache, he put the medicines on the desk, grabbed a large, heavy cotton bolster off his bed and tossed it to her. "Here."

"Oh!" Just his luck for it to hit her in the face. Belatedly, he realised that it was too big for her to even rest her head on. "Honestly, Ron! That's just too big! What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Do what you like, I'm not particular," he muttered.He resisted the impusle to tell her what to do with it; it wouldn't do any good to take out his own frustrations on her. "Will you keep it down, you'll wake Harry!"

It took some time to arrange the gourds to Hermione's satisfaction, but a few swear-words and several instructions later, which had Hermione practically shrieking with frustration, he had them neatly propped into the wall. He turned from his desk to give her what-for for being so bossy. But then he stopped short, looking at her critically. She lay sprawled on the floor, half-propped up on the pillow, drenched in perspiration, exhausted from the journey, and from helping him. In that moment, he just loved everything about her, including her sharp tongue; what had she done, really, except go to a great deal of trouble to help him, help Harry? She was always there when they needed her, she – "You're brilliant, Hermione, you know that?"

"Thanks," she murmured, sounding pleased. Her warm brown eyes fluttered closed and he would have hugged her if he hadn't been too shy to. What would he do without her, ever? "You sure you're comfortable on the floor?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes, it's fine," she sighed. "I don't think I've the strength to climb up onto the bed after all that."

He looked at her for a moment, drawing comfort from her presence: just seeing her there, with her bushy hair and big teeth and flushed cheeks, made him feel safe, as he had felt in his Mum's arms when he was little. But she had to change out of that wet blouse! "You'll catch cold like that," he muttered, going to the window. "Ugh, insects!" He flicked the beetle off the sill into the garden below, then closed the glass firmly.

Hermione, meanwhile, had shrugged off the canteens. "Ron, please tell me what's going on," she said firmly, but with a little note of helplessness in her voice, sitting on the floor with her legs to one side.

"Well…" He dropped to the floor beside her, took a deep breath, and began to tell herwhat he had seen and heard. Halting at first as he described his suspicions and clumsy attempts at healing Harry, he spoke faster and faster as he described his own fear and frustration, and finally it was all pouring out of him in a torrent of words: "And Harry won't let me tell anyone, and how am I supposed to stop it from happening? We can't tell Wizarding Child Protective Services or the WSPCC, because then the bloody Ministry'll get wind of it, we can't go and tackle them ourselves, not that I wouldn't, stuff Underage Use of Magic, but the investigation would drag it all out and Harry'd go spare, and if I waited till Hogwarts to do magic on his aunt and uncle I can't Apparate, anyway, and how would I get out of school without anyone noticing and if I tell someone they'll tell the Ministry and I'll be right back where I started," he raked a hand jerkily through his hair, dimly registering Hermione's hand on his shoulder but growing more and more swamped by the minute by his rapidly rising panic, "and _don't_ tell me to talk to Dumbledore because Harry already nixed that, all right, not sure what the hell he was thinking but he _did_, and I can't let him go back there and get hit but I don't know what to _do_…"

"Ron, Ron. Calm down, all right?" Hermione whispered. "I'll think of something."

He knew it was irrational, the surge of relief he felt when she said that, as though she could somehow make it all better without a wand, and yet… "OK."

He started as she got to her feet. "Is he a deep sleeper?" she asked. He moved his hand in a 'so-so' gesture before he could fully register what she meant, and jumped up when he saw her moving towards Harry, taking an air-light hold on the cotton sheet…

"Hermione, no!" he hissed urgently.

But it was too late. She had peeled it off the sleeping form, and now her hands were flying to her mouth, a small sound escaping her, tears brimming in her saucer-wide eyes. She took a quick, involuntary step back, cannoning into Ron, who had stepped up behind her to steady her, then started and stepped forward again. He could see her eyes tracing the welts as clearly as if she were touching them with her fingers, weeping silently and almost matter-of-factly, assessing the damage in the blisters and the awful rawness around the thick scabs, frowning at the red, shiny skin where Fred's hand had struck, at the mottled yellow and blue and green and purple ground deep into the pale flesh, at the funny, Sickle-sized black bruises on his upper arms. Finally, her tears never stopping, she gently covered Harry up with the sheet again, pivoted where she stood and flung herself crying into Ron's chest.

"Um…" Totally gobsmacked, Ron put his arms around her awkwardly. "There, there." She'd better watch out, he thought, because if she went on like this much longer, he might start blubbing himself. At least she was being quiet about it, he thought, not wanting to imagine Harry's reaction if he found out that Ron had not only told Hermione, but had been giving her the grand tour of Harry while he slept. He'd be delighted. _Not_.

Finally Hermione stepped back, wiping at her eyes. When she looked at him, there was fire in her gaze. "You didn't tell me it was this bad!" she hissed.

Good old dependable Hermione. Nice to know you could always depend on her to blame you in a crisis. "I did!" he snapped back _sotto voce_. "It's not my fault you've got no imagination!"

She blanched at the insult. "_What?_"

Taking a deep breath, Ron buried his face in his hands. _Calm down, Weasley. Insulting her isn't going to solve anything. _"Sorry," he groaned. "My mouth should be taken out and Avada'ed."

"Avarded?" Anger forgotten, she looked at him questioningly.

Good old Hermione. Distract her with an unfamiliar fact or phrase any day. Only he didn't know exactly what it meant, and said so. "It's just something I hear people say," he explained. "It means 'taken out and executed'."

"Oh," Hermione nodded in recognition. "Like 'taken out and shot'."

"Shot?" Now it was Ron's turn to look at her in incomprehension.

"With a gun." At Ron's stare, she explained, "It's a Muggle killing machine, a bit like a wand that shoots out bits of metal that tear you up and kill you."

Ron shuddered. "That's horrible."

"It is," Hermione said. Sobering, she lowered her voice to the ghost of a whisper. "But Ron, I never thought – those marks on his back, they'd have to have been made by a – a really heavy stick! I can't believe they actually…"

"You know what he said to me, Hermione?" And Ron told her what Harry had involuntarily blurted when he woke. "I can't believe it, but he said it! They hit him with it till the flaming _wood_ broke!"

She stared at him in shock.

"Hermione, what are we going to _do_?"

He saw a look settle into her face. He had seen that look before – usually it was when Snape set them an impossible potion in a ridiculously limited time, or when she was trying to solve a fiendish Arithmancy equation or decipher a particularly difficult Runic script. He usually dubbed it the "Hermione's-Got-It-Into-Her-Head-To-Solve-This-Problem-And-She's-Going-To-_Do_-It-Too, So-Everyone-Had-Better-Watch-Out" look. Or for ease of reference, That Look.

She was wearing That Look now.

And it was the reason he trusted her when she said:

"I'll think of something."

* * *

George stirred, feeling his twin move alongside him out of long habit. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times one had awoken before the other. Coming awake, they heard their mother welcoming Hermione into the house, then the girl's footsteps going up the stairs, and suddenly perked up with a lot more interest. 

It was then that The Thought occurred to George. "Fred?"

"Yeah?"

"Hermione's going up to Ronnie's room."

"Yeah, so? She always…"

"Think the boys made themselves decent after last night?"

"Wh—oh, _shit!_" He felt his brother bolt up next to him, sitting up and fumbling for a set of robes.

George looked on nonchalantly. "What's your hurry?"

"Come on, George, we've got to warn them!" Fred reached for a robe, missed, overbalanced and nearly fell out of bed. "Come _on!_"

"Don't think so, Fred," George smiled. He reached for the surveillance cone.

Fred looked at him desperately. "But Hermione…"

"…isn't a delicate flower, Fred, no matter what you think. And they've got to take their knocks here, now, where they won't hurt 'em."

Fred looked at him, the glimmerings of understanding starting to appear on his twin's face. "If they don't know to lock the door yet, the sooner they learn that the better," Fred said slowly, voicing George's train of thought.

"And better their best friend should find 'em than someone in Gryffindor Tower, or Malfoy." George had affixed the thread to the cone now.

Fred's eyes were drawn to the cone. "And this has got to be more fun than anything the WWN ever put on, hasn't it, Forge?"

"Took the words out of my mouth, Gred," George smiled as he motioned for his twin to sit down and enjoy the show. "Who d'you think'll scream first, her or Ronnie?"

"Why not Harry?"

"Nah, he's too cool."

"W-wasn't too cool last night," Fred blushed as he fiddled with the cone. "Ah!" he gave a satisfied exclamation as voiced began to come out of it.

Their jaws dropped at the first thing they heard.

_"Let me help you get these things off first."_

They looked at each other.

"T-travelling robe," Fred said hastily, "it's got to be a travelling robe…"

"_Ooh!" _came Hermione's tinny gasp, and then a lot of heavy breathing.

"They can't be," George said, paling, "no way, it can't be, Harry's right there…"

"Ssh, you'll wake Harry," Ron whispered. His voice sounded strained, as though holding back his arousal was a great effort. 

"No way…" George whispered. "Harry was bad enough, but Hermione as _well_?"

The unmistakable sound of clothing slithering off came loudly through the cone, followed by Ron's admiring tones: _"How'd you ever get into that harness, anyway?"_

"Naffing hell!" Fred exploded, leaping up out of bed. "Harness? What the hell are they teaching at Hogwarts these days, anyway?"

"And why the hell didn't they teach it to us?" George finished, smiling at his twin's embarrassment. He was blushing quite a bit himself.

"_It's not easy, I can tell you," _came Hermione's voice, panting with desire. _"I had to buy it specially, and…"_ Her voice faltered as though at the touch of a lover. _"Oh…"_ she moaned.

George was shaking his head. "I said she wasn't a delicate flower, but I had no _idea_…"

"_Sit on the bed, it'll be easier,"_ Ron instructed.

The twins looked at each other and said with one voice, "Did you give him a sex manual for his birthday?" Exchanging a glare, they said in unison, "No!" Exchanging another glare, they took a deep breath and asked, again in unison: "Well, then, who did?"

But Hermione was asking: _"Can't you just do it standing up?" _

Through their gasps of shock, they heard a muffled answer from their baby brother: _"No, that won't work. At least get on your knees, all right? I can't getthese rocks off otherwise." _

"ARGH!" Fred screamed. "Get on her knees! Get his ROCKS off! Oh my God! My baby brother!"

"Hermione… do it standing up…" George gibbered.

"_Oh, all right then."_ There were thumping noises, then Hermione giving instructions, _"Look, undo this strap first, then the other…now the clasp… honestly, one would think you'd never done this before." _

The twins exchanged glances. "Not with a girl, anyway," George piped up; he seemed to have recovered his composure.

Fred grimaced. "Just had to say that, didn't you?"

Hermione was still telling Ron how to undress her. _"That's right… now the zip, okay… ah!"_

"Now I know!" Fred yelled. "_She_ gave him the sex manual! I knew it!Hermione's a scarlet woman, I always suspected it of her!" He ranted on, tearing at his hair. "She corrupted Ron… she made him have…"

"Homosexual sex?" George interjected mildly.

_"Cor!_" Ron gasped as though at an awesome sight._"How did you get the pair of those in there?"_

The twins' screams almost drowned out the bugged voices. Then Fred recovered his composure. "I don't remember 'em being _that_ big," he said to his twin. "Certainly not enough to get that kind of a rise out of him." His head dropped into his hands. "What am I saying!"

"No, you're right,' George said. "Never thought of that little girl as having big knockers. She does wear loose robes, though, so maybe…"

Hermione's voice came through: _"Well, you were pretty specific, and I looked everything up."_

The image of Hermione in scanty lingerie flitted across George's mind a split-second before Fred's roar. "In the sex manual!" he yelled. "She looked it up in the sex manual! Our little brother is studying sex manuals! Hogwarts is teaching se—"

"Fred, calm down," George urged. In the lull, the girl's bossy voice floated out:

_"Be very careful. Don't squeeze them. Just slip your hands under them gently and lift."_

Fred gave a helpless little moan and collapsed onto the bed.

"Look, Freddie," George urged, using his baby pet name and patting his cheek gently, "he's got to learn about sex sometime."

"Oh yeah, and what was last night? A dress rehearsal?"

"I mean… oh Merlin, forget it." George ran out of steam and he collapsed on the bed next to Fred.

"Harry AND Hermione?" Fred said. "That's – that's – it's perverted, it's…"

"A hell of an achievement?" George suggested.

Fred mulled this over. "You may be right," he said thoughtfully.

"Course I'm right," George said. "We should get him to give us lessons. God knows I didn't get a boy _and_ a girl in my first year."

"At the same time."

"In the same _room_."

"_Oh come on, Hermione, I'm not a complete idiot," _Ron was saying, then a pause: _"Uh! They're wobbly!"_

"Oh, smooth, Ron, smooth," George said resignedly. "What did you expect her tits to be made out of, hardwood?"

"_What did you expect?" _Hermione huffed.

"Come on, Ronnie!" Fred said encouragingly. "No silly remarks! Got to keep the Weasley end up!"

"_You're wet,"_ was the next thing out of their brother's mouth.

George groaned. "Too much information! I don't even want to _imagine_ that!"

Fred licked his lips. "Sounds all right to me."

_"Want me to get up? Will it stain the floor?"_

The twins exchanged glances again. "Cor. I never got a girl that wet!" Fred said conversationally.

"That's because you've never had a girl, you nit."

"No, but if I had, I would have."

"Shut up and listen," was the good-natured reply.

They started as Hermione screamed. _"NO!"_

"God, Ron, you're impossible!" Fred shouted. "You're not supposed to hurt her!"

"Inexperience, that's what it is!" George pounded a fist into his palm. "He should get more practice! – er…"

Fred glared daggers at him. "Your suggestion, Doctor Weasley? Perhaps the Quidditch team? During a match?"

George wiggled his eyebrows. "Always wanted to do it on a broomstick. Every wizard's fantasy, and all that.."

"Don't _squeeze_ them!" came Hermione's voice. "Not so fast. And be _careful_ with the nipples!"

"God, she's bossy in bed."

"Fred…"

"Yeah?"

George had his eyes closed. "What do you think they're doing right now?"

Fred closed his eyes for a second, then they flew open. "Ugh! How dare you, George! That's disgusting!"

"Will you keep it down, you'll wake Harry!"

Then Ron's voice came through, slightly strained: _"Here."_

The twins held their breath as Hermione gasped. Then she said: _"Honestly, Ron! That's just too big! What am I supposed to do with it?"_

The twins whooped and high-fived at this female affirmation of their brother's virility. "Yeah, Ronnie!" George crowed.

"That's our Ron! Always knew he had it in him!" Fred exulted, then paled at George's steely glare. "I mean... it's a figure of speech, George."

_"Do what you like, I'm not particular,"_ Ron said, making the twins break out into laughter.

"No he isn't, is he?" Fred laughed.

"Who's next, Mrs Norris?" giggled George. Now it was his turn to pale under Fred's glare. "Ha ha, joke," he said nervously.

Ron's voice came strained through the cone. _"Will you keep it down, you'll wake Harry!"_

"Merlin, he's got guts," Fred whistled.

"Right there in the room with Harry asleep next to them," marvelled George.

The cone came alive again, and the twins blushed at what came out of it: Hermione going _"Left a bit.. oh, no no, right a bit... Oh, not so fast, Ron, honestly!"_

Fred glanced at George: he could see his twin's face blazing absolutely scarlet, picturing what was going on two doors away. The girl was going on:"_Ooh, be careful! NO! The angle should be a bit more... Yes, yes, that's more like it. YES! Good!"_

"God," Fred choked out for the second time that morning,"sh-she's bossy in bed."

George squeaked, beyond speech.

Meanwhile, Not-So-Ickle Ronnikins, obviously the strong silent type, was going "All right, mm, like this? This better? Well, be patient, Hermione, I don't want to spill it, do I?"

Fred moaned in anguish.

Finally there was silence, heavy breathing, and Ron's voice:

_"You're brilliant, Hermione, you know that?"_

_"Thanks,"_ the Scarlet Woman said modestly.

"Hear that?" George moaned. "Brilliant, he says."

"Think he's done it more than once?"

"Well, if you've forgotten about last night..."

"I don't mean last night, ya twit! I mean at Hogwarts School of Sex bloody Education!"

But their Casanova brother was asking again in that ridiculously solicitous voice, _"You sure you're comfortable on the floor?"_

"God. They did it on the floor."

"Well, we've done it on th..."

"The roof was a one-time thing, George!" Fred snapped.

_"Yes, it's fine,"_ came Hermione's contented, sex-sated sigh._"I don't think I've the strength to climb up onto the bed after all that."_

Fred and George beamed at one another. Fred was the first to break the silence. "All things considered, twin o'mine, I do believe we have taught this young pup well."

"From what I've heard, he could teach us a few..."

"George!"

"Well, it's true, isn't..."

_"Ugh, insects!"_

George was cut off by a crackle and squeak as the connection was abruptly cut off. Pulling in the string, he swore as only empty thread came in. "He's bunged our beetle out the window," he said, displaying the empty thread to Fred. But his brother looked unconcerned, an admiring light in his eyes.

"George," Fred intoned, "I think we owe Ronnie a great deal more respect than we've been giving him so far, don't you think?"

George nodded gravely. "Indubitably, Fred."

"Why at this rate, he might break Charlie's record!"


	6. Chapter 6

Comic interludes being over for now, we now returnto your regularly scheduled h/c. Thanks to my fabulous reviewers, especially Harry Lvr, and toLeviathan, who knows why.

* * *

The rest of their time before Harry woke up was taken up with Hermione's explanation of the different ingredients she had brought with her. The 'rocks' turned out to be gourds full of potion – "Liquid's one of the heaviest things you can carry" – to be used in a bath. "He's got to soak in it for half an hour, well, that's how I interpreted the "from the moment the sun reaches its zenith until the shadow of the Maypole can be seen to occupy two handsbreadths to the side" instruction, anyway." The rest of the packages were less esoteric – a skin-repairing salve called Derma-Gro "which is only supposed to be sold to licensed Healers, but your marvellous owl managed to get some from Goodness knows where" – and another to be massaged into Harry's bruises, two or three potions – "mostly to rebuild strength" – and mysterious Muggle things: a vial of what looked like rat droppings, only white, which Hermione said were the Muggle equivalent of pain-numbing potions, and more colourful rat droppings called "vitamins" which she explained at length – "The C and E promote healing and help tissue to rebuild itself, and the B works on the nerves and skin – can't hurt, anyway – and the calcium is to help build his bones, he's very undernourished…" Her voice faltered and he patted her hand. 

"You've done us proud, Hermione."

Harry's sleepy voice sounded through the room. "Done who proud?"

"Oh, bugger."

Harry rolled over on his side, caught sight of Hermione, and froze. "Um – hi, Hermione – wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"

Hermione fixed Harry with a steely glare. "I know all about it, Harry."

Harry's response was to glare weakly at Ron. "I told you…"

"…not to tell anyone," Ron finished. "And I haven't. Hermione's not just anyone, is she?"

"Well, no," Harry conceded, looking, if anything, relieved that his other best friend was there, but with the air of one wishing to keep up appearances, "but…"

"But what?" said Ron challengingly. Harry blinked; he wasn't used to seeing his easygoing friend this forceful.

"It's all right," Harry said, "but I don't want anyone else knowing."

"No-one does know," Ron said, surprising even himself at how strong his voice was – he'd expected to be grovelling to Harry at this point – "except us. And I'm not telling _anyone_. Not the twins, not Mum, not Dad, not Dumbledore, nobody. All right?"

Harry mumbled something and grinned, flashing the V for victory sign.

"What was that, Harry?"

"Nothing, Hermione."

"It sounded like 'Dumbledore already knows.' Is that what you said?" Her voice was harsh, but not with anger. "You can't mean he knows about – about _this_?"

Harry didn't question how Hermione knew what the sheet-covered 'this' was, which Ron felt was pretty lucky. "No," he said hurriedly. "Just thinking, that's all…"

"Thinking about what?"

Ron cursed Hermione's persistence. Harry stammered, "Well, erm… you know the checkup we got when we went to Hogwarts? It… I mean, Pomfrey must have seen…" His face burned with bright colour.

Ron's heart sank and a sick feeling coiled into the pit of his stomach and settled there. Not trusting himself to speak, he watched as Hermione went pale. "You mean… that day we met on the train…"

Ron had never in his life been so glad to hear his Mum's call of "Breakfast!"

"Hermione, do you think you could get out of here? We've got to get dressed," Ron said in his most gentlemanly tone, coupling his movement with a chivalrous nudge towards the door. "Stop embarrassing him!" he whispered furiously as he shoved the door open.

"It's important that we find out…"

Ron marvelled at her insensitivity. "Look, can we just please discuss this later?"

"But…"

"It's getting cold!" Mrs Weasley sang out from downstairs.

"Oh, all right," Hermione said, looking unconvinced. "Harry, don't take any of the potions on an empty stomach!" she called as she left.

Ron pulled his clothes on and studiously avoided looking at Harry at all. His mind was whirling. All he could think of was that first day on the train. The scene replayed itself in slow motion: Harry popping into his compartment, perching on the seat, his own stupid, selfish comment about how he didn't like corned beef, Harry cheerfully volunteering how his family locked him in the cupboard – that whole thing with the snack cart, the Chocolate Frog cards – did Harry mean he'd been in pain all that time? That if he, Ron, had lifted up his shirt in the compartment, he'd have seen injuries like the ones on Harry now? Ron's stomach clenched painfully; there was no other meaning to Harry's words.

He barely registered walking downstairs and having breakfast: all he could think of was his perceptions that day. How diffident Harry had been when he'd looked into the compartment, asking permission to sit there; he'd liked that, liked it a lot, after his boisterous and pushy brothers. He remembered how it had instantly made him feel just a little bit protective of the short, thin boy, made him want to take him under his wing. He'd warmed to Harry for just this reason, his politeness, his shyness and reticence—

—but he had never thought that the quietness had been beaten into him.

Ron stabbed his roll savagely with a fork. _Beaten_ into him! Into his Harry! He caught the possessive pronoun and refused to take it back in his mind. Yeah, he'd take Harry if his relatives didn't want him. At least he wouldn't beat him with a stick hard enough to make him bleed—

Ron swallowed hard, his Mum's wonderful sausages tasting like ashes in his mouth. Now he came to think of it, that first meeting on the train, Harry hadn't sprawled in his seat as Ron had, but had studiously avoided relaxing in his seat and letting his back touch the cushions – Ron felt sick. That meant his back _had_ been hurting, his first day at a new school, and poor old Harry had had to contend with being sore and hiding his pain and acting as though nothing was wrong on top of everything else. He couldn't stop remembering: the encounter with Malfoy, Harry's stiff insistence that he could decide for himself who to make friends with – on the strength of what? A few chocolate frogs? It wasn't as though Harry knew anything about Malfoy. It couldn't have been just because he'd complained about the corned-beef sandwiches and wearing hand-me-downs and having no money…

…or could it? It made sense that Harry would feel more OK with a fellow-sufferer than with someone who was wealth and privilege on a stick. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Harry was rich, but he'd grown up poorer than he, Ron, had ever felt; at least he'd known that if his parents could have given him something, they would have. And now to know that Harry had been in actual _physical_ _pain_ all that time… during the boat-ride, during the Sorting, during Dumbledore's speech… He fixed his eyes on his eggs and blinked hard. And he'd just _sat_ there like a prize ass, knowing nothing and caring less! Well, he amended, he wasn't really to blame for that. Harry was a past master when it came to hiding pain; the past few days had shown that well enough. But no more, he thought vehemently._ No more._

Slightly fortified with this thought, he glanced upwards to find Hermione looking at him with much the same expression on her face as he felt: passionate, grim determination. They locked eyes in a pact. Harry would not suffer in silence while they drew breath.

And really, the twins were impossible. Now what were they sniggering at?


End file.
